


I know exactly why I walk and talk like a machine

by MetaAllu



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drug Addiction, Masturbation, Other, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:30:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetaAllu/pseuds/MetaAllu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen masturbates.  It does not satisfy.  Set during the Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I know exactly why I walk and talk like a machine

**Author's Note:**

> Witness my shame.
> 
> This fic mention drug addiction and implies previous drug abuse (lyrium). Subject of his fantasies is meant to be obscure. You can see them as anyone/any gender ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The chantry has rules about this sort of thing. You know, rules which everyone repeats when the subject comes up as if it's been written into the palms of their hand, when in fact the palms of their hands are engraved with each and every sin. In the eyes of the Maker, in any case.

That's what he tells himself as he sits alone at his desk with his trousers tugged down past his arse, the door locked tight, not that anyone is going to be coming in at this hour. No one seems to bother him once the sun sets. No one with any sense, in any case. Considering the number of times he's done this in his life—starting with the first time he saw her, the mage who later became a warden, and the Hero of Ferelden—there's been surprisingly little smiting. 

It used to take only a few minutes, but he's learned his own body since then—Really. There should have been at least one smite by now—and he can string himself out for a good hour if he wants to. Tonight, though, tonight it's just too many thoughts, the buzz of lyrium in the back of his mind, the itch in his fingertips, and he doesn't know what else to do with it, so he puts his hand to his cock and begs for the Maker to forgive him as he lets his mind run wild, lets himself think of skin on skin, of fisting his hand in someone's hair, driving in deep and— 

"Fuck–" he rasps, biting down on every sound bubbling in his warming gut. He grips tighter, and his hand rasps over the skin of his cock as he scrambles for something tangible, something to pull him over the edge, and he thinks of a voice, thinks of a rasping breath in his ear, a plea for more, grunting as he tumbles over the edge with his fist clenched around his cock and his breath in his throat. 

The silence afterwards is oppressive. He feels too stick and too hot, and he pulls his pauldroned coat off his shoulders as the oppressive quietness settles into his bones. He is alone, with no hand on his, no lover beside him, and no Maker whispering in his ear. There is only a buzz, a temptation, an ache inside of him that he can not end. His fingers tug through his hair, and then he stands up and abandons his desk for his bed, if only to escape to the quietness of his nightmares.


End file.
